Not-typical Essex girl and 30-something teenager, named Lucy, witters on about the (probably) utterly useless tellings of current everyday life. An Artist, she dabbles with pencils and papers to draw faces. She also bumbles and stumbles through depression, while being fiercely opposed to endometriosis-plagued ovaries and wombs, especially her own. At the time of typing this, she is a non-worker...

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Tuesday, 28 May 2013

Chronic.

I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know how to stop feeling so dark and bitter and disappointed. These injections were meant to stop periods and help my emotional state. Periods have stopped but my mind isn't in a good way. And the pains haven't gone; they still do well at fucking up my plans and days.

Endometriosis still hurts, even when I'm having what is termed a "medical menopause". Will the pains be like this if I have the whole useless lot taken out? There might be no point in having it done.
What if the jabs aren't strong enough?
What if I can't have any other surgery to remove any cysts or implants?

Is it temporary, feeling so hideously heartless and soulless and literally carefree? I don't know. The combination of the same injections, and the same HRT, and my "good" anti-depressants isn't as good as I hoped.

I don't know if a life with no periods - the heavenly lack of period pain and messy blood and heavy-limbed exhaustion - is worth living if I feel this way for the foreseeable future. I don't know what to do.

I don't care like I used to, about people or animals or world events.

I don't have compassion like I used to.

I'm not in the least bit grateful for advice about what might help me, least of all when offered by someone with shit all knowledge of endometriosis and/or depression, and the illogical nature of each. And they wonder why I react in snappy or moody ways. "HORMONES??", I may say, sarcastically and with a look which could turn water to sulphuric acid. "There's no need to be like that", they may say. And then I imagine clumping them in the side of the head and saying, "I CAN'T. FUCKING. HELP. IT.", before summoning the determination to just... walk... away...

Cabin fever is also not helpful. I need to get away. Nowhere to get to. Can't even fucking walk properly some days, and my forgetfulness is getting worse every day.

I don't feel as affected as others clearly think I ought to, who then judge me for being so cold.

I don't think before I speak and, if I've proverbially brought someone down a proverbial peg or two, I feel disgracefully pleased that I did. I despise what I've become and don't know how to return to feeling the way I did.

I don't care that I've taken too many painkillers and that it might cause damage.

I don't care that my hot water bottle is too hot, or that my skin itches with rage, or that I have permanent burns.

I don't care when I seethe with unreasonable anger and disdain at what seems to my fucking annoyingly-depressed mind to be others' utter stupidity and/or incompetence, that they feel so negatively affected by my (re)actions.

I don't know how much longer I can cope. I don't know what to do.

I don't cry like I did when I might expect it to happen now. Even when I do cry, it feels forced, like it's simply not real.

I'm not asking for advice or fishing for kindness. I'm not expecting anything; I'm simply telling you a simple version of what I think is going on in my head.
None of it is simple to experience, and none of it is simple to manage.